


His brother

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9x23, Gen, Headcanon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 02:09:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1670816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He couldn't even count how many times he's watched his brother die in front of him, but it's not supposed to be like this. Every time, Sam thinks it's not supposed to be like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His brother

The only thought on Sam's mind was that he had to get Dean out of there. 

Even when his brother sagged and went limp, hands that should be strong but just crumpled Sam's clothes weakly in their grasp clinging to him, he gripped tighter and supported Dean's weight.

When Dean told him he was proud and it sounded like the words of a dying man that needed to make his peace but Sam could barely hear over the blood echoing in his ears with panic and adrenaline, he just pulled Dean's body into his arms and carried him.

Sam prayed the whole way, laying Dean down in the backseat of the Impala and speeding back to their bunker. How many times had he thought of their car as a funeral hearse, sleek long and black, carrying corpses in the trunk. It was a hearse for monsters, it was supposed to be a home for Dean, supposed to hold his warm body lax in sleep under a scratchy moth eaten blanket on the side of the road. It was supposed to be an ambulance for Dean, carrying his battered bloody body to safety as he staunched wounds and clung to life with shuddering breath. It had already been a hearse for Dean once when his body was shredded by hounds and Sam had driven him to a burial site, refusing to burn his body. People weren't supposed to take multiple trips in the back of a hearse.

He couldn't even count how many times he's watched his brother die in front of him, but it's not supposed to be like this. Every time, Sam thinks it's not supposed to be like this. 

Faded yellow lines blur in his vision, cheeks wet, chest heaving for breath like a man being choked, and maybe he shouldn't be driving in this condition but he's used to it, and his hands know how to handle the hearse when he's barely present for it. 

Sam prays to Castiel and he prays for Castiel. He didn't know what the ominous reverberations in the building had foreshadowed, but ominous things are never good in their line of work. Metatron had just flown off and left Sam with his dying brother and no retribution. Sam knew viscerally that Metatron had gone for Cas, and that meant Cas was in trouble. Sam didn't even know if Cas was there to be praying to anymore. He didn't even know if Cas could heal Dean, his pulse had fluttered and stopped, his chest wasn't moving with breath, he was dead. Every tap, every use, of Castiel's stolen grace dwindled the angel down but he'd give it for Dean wouldn't he. Sam knew he would, but Dean was past injured, it wasn't just a wound, he was gone, he was dead and there was a dense weight in the pit of Sam's stomach that told him no, Castiel could not fix that. The angel didn't even have his wings, how long would it take for Cas to come back to them.

If he was coming back. 

Sam tore down the rutted dirt path that lead to the bunker, the Impala bouncing on her shocks, parking in the middle of the garage and leaving the doors flung open as he heaved his brother's body - corpse - over a shoulder and carried him down soft lit corridors. Sam couldn't look at his bloody face anymore. People always said the dead looked restful, peaceful. Maybe after a funeral director had gotten a hold of them, maybe if they had died how normal people do without violence and desperation. Sam had seen a lot of death but he never saw a peaceful corpse. 

Taking the body - Dean - to the kitchen, Sam lay him out on the shining smooth surface of the stainless steel table, body still loose but the warmth was starting to leech out like it was seeping from the open wounds. There were holes in Sam's brother that were letting his blood out, his warmth, his life, his soul. 

Sam was wiping down Dean's face with a wet wash cloth. He didn't remember getting one. He didn't remember when they had turned down the dirt path to the bunker. He didn't remember where he parked the Impala and if he took the keys out of the ignition or not. One moment he was clutching Dean to his chest as his brother told him he was proud and now he was wiping crusted blood from the corner's of Dean's eyes that were starting to wrinkle even though he laughed so much less these days. 

Dean's face didn't look too bad. It didn't look as bad as the swollen pulpy mess Sam had seen from the corner of his mind where he looked out through eyes he couldn't control to watch his hands beating his brother in the cemetery that one time. It didn't look so bad as that right now, after Sam had cleaned it up. 

His hands were red and cold, trembling when he held them in front of his face. He wanted to wipe the wetness from his face but his hands were stained red. Flinging the dirty cloth away from him without looking, Sam gripped the edge of the table and bent over letting a sob wrack through his body, every muscle tensed and shivering like his body was on the cusp of something he was trying desperately to hold himself back from.

Cradling Dean's body in his long arms, he carried his brother to the bedroom that had been claimed as his own. Dean was so excited to have his own place, his own bed. It was memory foam. It remembered him. Sam wondered if it could still remember Dean now. If it was still Dean. Sam doubted his brother would actually let go and follow a reaper. His soul must still be around, was probably yelling at Sam right now. 

Sam was hollowed out and numb. His ears were still ringing. His stomach was sour and cramped. Leaving Dean on his bed, Sam staggered down the hall to the bathroom and retched the remains of whatever he had digested hours ago, mostly bile by now. Castiel had not answered him yet, there was no one else to contact, no one else to ask for help or to notify of Dean's death. Sam found himself standing in front of the liquor cabinet running his hands over smooth glass and paper labels. 

It was what Dean always did, what he had seen his father do too, look for answers in amber. 

It was a bad idea. It was such a bad idea Sam didn't even have a word for how bad it was. Dean's dead body was down the hall and they had a bunker stocked with all manner of ingredients for a slew of rituals and summonings and spells as old as Death.   
He thought he had shut the door to the cabinet but the next thing Sam knew he was sitting in the dark rolling a crystal glass between his hands with a half empty bottle in front of him. Strange that. How time seemed to be moving it slips and stutters. He kept losing track of himself, his body, his mind, time passing. 

Drinking was a great Winchester tradition. Sam didn't do it often enough. Not like Dean. Not like how his brother would drink himself into a stupor when he didn't have answers or anything better to do and Sam knew he was drowning himself but never seemed strong enough to save his brother.

Sam choked on the liquor more than a few times. It was hard to swallow it down in his throat with that thing that was lodged in there. Grief. It didn't quite seem to want to settle down under his ribs or fly out through his mouth. It just bobbed in his throat. Made it difficult to drink. 

He should put down the bottle. Curl up the corner. Maybe cry himself to sleep. Build a pyre for Dean. Anything. Something. 

His brother had tricked him into accepting angelic possession. His brother had lied to and deceived him. His brother had taken the Mark of Cain and left Sam behind. But the only thing he heard now in the stillness of the bunker and the whiskey soaked slosh of his mind was his brother, his brother, his brother.

His brother went to purgatory once. And Sam didn't even look for him. Dean had liked to remind him of that fact, that he didn't even look, that he didn't even try. Dean was saved by a vampire and it was so easy to rub that in Sam's face. All the years they had been brothers, all the fights they'd saved each other from, all the monster's they'd taken down together and all the times they'd died. And Dean gets help from a vampire once and suddenly Dean trusts the vampire more. God that had hurt.

Sam said he'd let his brother go when it was his time. Sam believed it. 

But here he was looking for answers in amber and the front of his shirt had Dean's dried blood making it stiff, and there was a corpse down the hall and all the ingredients for a summoning in the basement. Maybe Sam could ask the other angel's for help. But you never knew whose side an angel was on, they lied, they schemed. Angels were surprisingly amoral and unpredictable. Make a deal with a demon, and yeah demon's lied a lot but you could expect it. And if you sealed a deal with a demon they would hold up their end of the bargain one way or another. Crowley owed them. He would have to deal with Sam.

Sam could tell himself it was another family tradition. Like he ever paid much mind to those. Dad sold his soul for Dean. Dean sold his soul for Sam. It was Sam's turn to pony up. 

Dean was down the hall cold and still. Sam should build his pyre. He couldn't help wondering if Dean was going to stay dead. They had always been puppets for larger forces, before they even knew about it. Somebody would probably get to Dean's body eventually. Sam should do it first. When Dean had gone to purgatory Sam didn't have anywhere to look or any leads to follow. But he had Dean here now, had everything he needed. He didn't know if he could watch someone else bring Dean back, watch his brother slide further and further away from him. 

He had everything he needed.


End file.
